It was fortunate for all of them that she seemed capable of dealing with the blood on her own, because if she'd needed Ford to handle it he expected his hands would have been shaking too badly to be of any use at all. It wasn't that he had a thing about blood (though of course he didn't like blood, either) — it was just that he didn't know he'd be able to keep his nerves steady and his wits about him if the situation had required him to actually put his hands on her thigh. He was having enough trouble just watching. Of course he told himself not to look, and under normal circumstances he surely would have diverted his gaze... but then he caught himself looking all the same. He felt guilty about it, but not guilty enough to pull his eyes away as she worked. He could only hope he'd been subtle enough that she hadn't noticed him gawking. The look she turned on him when she finished seemed exasperated, but whether it was with him specifically or the situation more generally he couldn't be entirely sure.

"Right," he said when he eventually realized this was his cue to start fixing her skirt. He had, admittedly, been too distracted by the spectacle of her legs to have responded as quickly as he should have to her look. In an effort to make up for the delay he immediate set about mending the underskirt she'd indicated. It wasn't the quickest of spells, at least if one was trying to do it properly, but he did run through the seam as rapidly as he could without muddling the stitches and soon her legs had disappeared from view.

"Can you hold the overskirt in place?" he asked as he turned his attention towards it. He could have done it himself, but — that seemed rather presumptuous.

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